


A Boy and Oliphaunt Story

by Lbilover



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Minor Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 17:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10470360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/pseuds/Lbilover
Summary: The title pretty well sums it up. :-)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I totally hated Tolkien's predicted fates for Sam's Oliphaunt, so I came up with an alternate explanation for what might have become of him...
> 
> Written for the 2017 FFFC Minor Character Challenge.

_On he came, straight towards the watchers, and then swerved aside in the nick of time, passing only a few yards away, rocking the ground beneath their feet: his great legs like trees, enormous sail-like ears spread out, long snout upraised like a huge serpent about to strike. his small red eyes raging. His upturned hornlike tusks were bound with bands of gold and dripped with blood. His trappings of scarlet and gold flapped about him in wild tatters. The ruins of what seemed a very war-tower lay upon his heaving back, smashed in his furious passage through the woods; and high upon his neck still desperately clung a tiny figure-the body of a mighty warrior, a giant among the Swertings._

_On the great beast thundered, blundering in blind wrath through pool and thicket. Arrows skipped and snapped harmlessly about the triple hide of his flanks. Men of both sides fled before him, but many he overtook and crushed to the ground. Soon he was lost to view, still trumpeting and stamping far away. What became of him Sam never heard: whether he escaped to roam the wild for a time, until he perished far from his home or was trapped in some deep pit; or whether he raged on until he plunged in the Great River and was swallowed up._

~*~

**Once upon a time...**

...there was a boy named Ash. He lived with his parents in a small village in the land of Gondor. His father was a blacksmith who worked the village forge, while his mother tended their garden and saw to the chickens and goats. They led a simple, peaceful existence, unbothered by the outside world. 

Ash was a curious lad, though, and when visitors came to the village he listened eagerly to their stories. Over time the tales became darker. People spoke in hushed tones of the rise of the Dark Lord and the rebuilding of his stronghold in Mordor. Orcs and worse, they said, had been seen roaming the countryside, and in the City the lords of Gondor were said to be preparing for battle.

All this might have seemed simple exaggeration, even to Ash, but each day the sky to the east glowed redder from the Mountain of Fire in the Dark Lord's realm, and from time to time a shadow passing far overhead sent a chill through young and old, causing them to cower and the dogs to howl and the horses to neigh in fear in their stables. 

A growing uneasiness fell over the land. The villagers became wary, staying out of the woods and locking their doors at night. Ash's parents forbade him to wander.

And then one drear January afternoon a messenger in the silver and black livery of the City rode into the village and read a proclamation from the Steward: all able-bodied adult men were to come to Minas Tirith to help prepare for the defense of the City. War was indeed at hand.

Ash's father departed the next day and all but a few men unfit for battle went with him. The village was left to the infirm, the elderly, the women and the children. As he packed his saddle bags, the father said to Ash, "Take care of your mother." He didn't add, "Until I return." The boy knew, as did everyone saying goodbye to a father, a son, a husband or brother, that the odds were against any of them returning.

Little news reached the village in the following weeks, and such as did was grim. The Dark Lord was massing a great army. Southrons were joining him and many fell creatures: Orcs, trolls, wargs and worse. The city of Osgiliath, won back by the Lord Boromir, still held, thanks to the bravery of Captain Faramir and his men, but barely.

Meanwhile Ash did his best to take care of his grief-stricken mother, who had aged a dozen years in the time her husband had been gone. She scolded him when she caught him leaving the cottage with knife in belt and bow over shoulder. "It's too dangerous to go into the woods, my son," she said, and in her sorrowful eyes he saw what she wouldn't say aloud: "I don't want to lose you, too."

But they had to eat, and the winter stores of food and fuel were dwindling, and who was to bring back meat and wild roots and nuts, if he did not? Who was to gather firewood? So Ash went foraging despite her protests, at first only into the eaves of the forest, but gradually venturing further and further inside.

One early March morning the boy set out, walking quickly past the hens pecking at the dusty soil and the goats nibbling at tender spring shoots of grass. He kept his gaze averted from the sullen red sky to the east until he reached the shelter of the woods; but the ever-present menace of the Mountain of Fire and the rumours of Orc raids and of Southrons pillaging and plundering villages for food and supplies weighed on Ash nevertheless. 

He paused at every unexpected sound as he made his way through the woods, listening intently before continuing warily on. He gathered acorns, roots and mushrooms, adding them to a burlap sack he'd brought with him; but as always the sack filled too slowly for his liking. He hoped to encounter a deer or a wild pig or even a rabbit or squirrel, and kept an arrow loose in the quiver, ready to hand. But the woods seemed devoid of life today; even the birds were silent. An uneasy feeling crept over Ash and his wariness increased.

And then he came upon a scene that brought him up short in disbelief. A line of trees parallel to his path had been uprooted or snapped in two as if they were no more than twigs. He looked to left and right, marvelling at the extent of the destruction. It was as if a tornado had swept through the forest, taking down everything in its path. Except that the weather had been fair and mild and this damage was recent, for Ash could smell sap sharp on the air. 

Ash turned and followed the direction the trees had fallen, wondering what on earth could have done such a thing, but finding no answer. Then he stopped a second time as a heaving groan like a massive bellows shattered the uneasy silence. It broke in waves around him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and sending a bird exploding in a panic from its roost Whatever had made the sound had to be responsible for felling the trees, Ash thought, and it also had to be very, very large - and very, very near.

Ahead the woods thinned and beyond Ash glimpsed sunlight and green grass; with his heart pounding loudly in his ears, he crept forward. Another heaving groan nearly sent him fleeing, but curiosity, holding him firmly in its grip, won out, and he didn't turn back. He hid behind the bole of a tree at the edge of the clearing and cautiously peeked around it. He let out a gasp of astonishment and blinked rapidly as if to clear his vision, for what he beheld seemed so implausible that he thought he must be imagining it.

It was an Oliphaunt.

 _Grey as a mouse, big as a house._ The first lines of the childhood poem sprang into Ash's mind. His father had recited the verse to him many times, laughing when Ash demanded to know why there were no Oliphaunts in the village and why he couldn't have one. He'd stubbornly believed in their existence even when he reached the age of should-have-known-better, and here was proof positive that he'd been right to believe, for exist they did. 

Sheer wonder and delight filled Ash to see this fantastical creature come to life. But it quickly faded as another line from the poem came to him: _Never lie on the ground, not even to die_. For this Oliphaunt _was_ lying on the ground, with his legs tucked beneath him and his massive trunk trailing limp in the grass. The great beast let out another of those heartrending groans, and with a shock of horror Ash realised that he was injured, possibly to the death.

Quick concern filled the boy's heart; without pausing to consider the wisdom of his actions he set down the sack and his bow and arrows, and left the safety of the trees. His heart was pounding madly again and his palms were sweating as he walked toward the Oliphaunt. Even lying down, the animal was inconceivably huge, as if a small grey mountain had sprung up from the forest floor. When he groaned yet again a tremor like an earthquake ran beneath Ash's feet. 

But still Ash didn't stop. He approached the Oliphaunt from the side, moving towards his head while giving wide berth to the pair of curved ivory tusks that were banded with intricately worked gold. The tips of the tusks were stained dark red, and Ash repressed a shudder as he realised what the stains must be. 

The Oliphaunt's small eyes were closed and his cavernous mouth gaped open. His ears, large as ship's sails, were pinned back against his skull. He must be in awful pain, thought Ash, and though he would never have imagined feeling pity for such an imposing creature, he did.

The cause of the Oliphaunt's distress was easily found, for the splintered remnants of a heavy wooden tower hung suspended from his left side. Two wide leather girths held the tower in place, and they were digging cruelly into the tender flesh where his legs joined his body. Ash could see raw abrasions and the blood oozing from them.

"You poor thing," Ash exclaimed without thinking, and froze as the Oliphaunt's eyes opened. He stood suspended in fear until he realised that the eyes regarding him were dull with a mixture of pain and resignation. Here was no fierce beast, bloodthirsty and cruel, but a fellow creature suffering. "I want to help you," he added softly. "I promise, I mean you no harm." 

Before he lost his courage, Ash drew his knife from his belt and approached the Oliphaunt's right side. He could feel the animal's gaze following him and he wondered if he was going to his death. One shift of the massive body would crush him like an insect beneath a booted heel. 

Banishing the image, Ash stepped close and reached for the first wide leather strap. The bulk of the Oliphaunt loomed above him, blocking out the sun. Never had Ash felt so puny and insignificant. Swallowing hard, he pulled the strap away from the Oliphaunt's side as far as he could and slid the knife blade flat beneath it. The skin twitched, but the animal didn't move; emboldened, Ash turned the blade sharp edge up and sawed at the leather until he was sweating and his arm muscles quivered; but the strap finally gave. With a splintering creak the tower shifted so that all its weight rested on the rear girth. The Oliphaunt groaned, and Ash moved quickly to tackle the second strap, sawing at it like a mad thing until at last it, too, was cut and with a tremendous crash the tower fell to the ground.

Ash sheathed his knife. He hurried around to the Oliphaunt's other side and pulled the mess of ropes, straps, tattered cloth and ugly sharp-pointed splinters away, until only the gold bands on his tusks and the golden collar around his neck remained to show that the Oliphaunt had once borne Men upon his back. Fingering a scrap of the cloth, heavily embroidered in scarlet and gold, Ash thought that he must have been a magnificent sight. 

Where had he come from? Ash wondered, putting the scrap in his pocket. What had led him to this place? What had happened to those who rode in the tower? Had they died in battle?

But the questions crowding his mind went flying, for at that moment the Oliphaunt finally moved, raising his head and lifting his trunk high in the air. He rocked backward on his massive haunches, and as Ash watched in awestruck wonder, the Oliphaunt braced his front legs, wide as tree-trunks, and rose to all fours.

If he had seemed tall lying down, that was nothing to how he now appeared. Ash gaped up at the Oliphaunt, thinking that the poem didn't nearly do him justice - and wishing with all his heart that his father was there to see him, too.

The Oliphaunt shuffled around, lifting each massive foot and setting it carefully down, until he was facing Ash. And then he did something completely unexpected. He reached out with his trunk and touched Ash on the cheek. It was a gentle, questing touch; with surprising delicacy for a creature so large, the Oliphaunt explored Ash's entire face and ruffled through his hair, finally blowing a gust of warm air down Ash's neck that made the boy giggle and squirm. 

"That tickles!" he exclaimed and then gasped as the Oliphaunt wound his trunk around Ash's middle, not tightly but securely like the comforting embrace of a friend. This was, Ash realised, the Oliphaunt's way of thanking him. Looking up into the dark eyes so far above him, Ash no longer saw pain or resignation, and his heart rejoiced. 

"My name's Ash," he said, "and I wish I knew what your name is. My father," his voice caught, "he used to recite a poem about Oliphaunts to me when I was just little. He told me that Oliphaunts aren't real, but I always believed you were." Then he sighed, because the sun was westering and it was time to leave. "I have to go home now," he said. "It's getting late and my mother will be anxious about me."

The Oliphaunt blew again softly and unwound his trunk. Unbidden a tear rolled down Ash's cheek and he quickly wiped it away. The Oliphaunt was a wild creature who had suffered cruelly at the hands of men. He would want nothing more now that he was free than to go his own way. That was as it should be, for wild creatures belonged to no man, but nevertheless Ash felt a pang of sorrow that he would never see the Oliphaunt again. 

"I'll never forget you, Oliphaunt," he said. "I hope - I hope that you'll be safe and happy and find your home soon." Impulsively Ash wrapped his arms around the Oliphaunt's trunk and hugged him. He added in a trembling voice, "Goodbye," and hurried away.

Ash retrieved the sack and his bow and arrows, then turned to look back one final time. He waved and disappeared into the woods. The Oliphaunt stood still as a statue, watching Ash go. 

~*~

The sun had nearly set by the time Ash got home. His mother was, as he'd feared, in a state of anxiety, only somewhat mollified by the food he brought. He apologised, but made no mention of the cause of his tardiness, for he knew she wouldn't believe him if he told her he'd seen an Oliphaunt. He almost had trouble believing it himself, now that he was home. It might have been some fantastical dream, save for the tiny scrap of cloth in his pocket that he took out often to admire.

As Ash went about his chores the next morning, he thought of the Oliphaunt often and wondered where he was and if he was all right. He might have tried to return to the clearing, but after yesterday's scare his mother had strictly forbidden him to leave the village. Besides, he knew that if he did go, in place of the Oliphaunt he would find crushing disappointment.

After lunch he joined the other boys for some mock sword fighting, using flat wooden swords with blunted points. They played at soldiers-and-orcs and while Ash usually fought well, he was preoccupied with the previous day's adventure. He quickly lost, but shrugged off the inevitable teasing by picturing the astonishment and envy of his companions if they knew he'd seen a real live Oliphaunt.

Ash was standing on the sidelines watching his friends fight, the clack of wood on wood resounding around the village green, when he clang of a bell brought it to a stop. As one, the boys turned their gazes to the bell tower where a watch was posted day and night.

"Orcs!" cried the man on duty, pointing to the south where the main road met the lane to the village. "Orcs are coming!"

 _Mother_ , Ash thought, and took off running for home. The other boys scattered, no doubt doing the same. People were coming out of their houses, alarm on their faces.

Ash met his mother at the front door. "Son, what is happening?" she asked. 

"Orcs, Mother," Ash replied, hurrying inside. He grabbed his bow and arrows, leaning against the wall, and quickly slung the quiver over his shoulder. As he fitted the notch of an arrow to string with shaking fingers he said, "Stay inside and bar the door." His face was grim and, had he known it, very like his father's.

His mother's face was pale, but she calmly went to a cupboard and withdrew a short sword in a sheath. "Your father taught me to use this, Ash, and I won't cower in here while you and the others defend our home." She drew it from the sheath with a practiced motion and gestured him out the door. 

A cacophony of noise greeted them. Cattle were lowing, dogs barking, geese screaming. The village Elder was trying to calm the panic and organise a hasty defense. Ash and his mother ran to join them where they were gathering at the head of the lane. Ash's heart sank to see how pitiful their defense was, but even had his father and the other men been there, the task would have been daunting.

They stood in a line, armed with bows, swords, knives and clubs, watching as the Orc troop came into view. They were even more terrifying than Ash's worst imaginings, gnashing yellow fangs and screaming incomprehensible words. Their eyes glowed red as if their burnt-black skin was hot as the fire in his father's forge.

"Steady," said the Elder. "Archers, ready your bows."

Ash raised his, drawing back the string in one smooth motion. He was proud that his hands were steady. He sighted on an Orc, willing himself to be patient and wait until the order to fire was given. He only had a dozen arrows and he couldn't afford to waste even one.

But it was difficult as the Orcs drew nearer and even more horrid details of their appearance were revealed. And then the order came: "Fire!" Ash loosed the arrow, aiming for the Orc's throat. His aim was true; the arrow struck home and the Orc dropped in its tracks. Several Orcs fell, but not enough. The others seemed enraged and charged forward with renewed fury. 

Ash reached behind him for another arrow - and froze, for a trumpet-like call, fierce and wild, rang out, rising above all the other sounds and dwarfing them into insignificance. _It's the Oliphaunt_ , Ash thought, his heart leaping with sudden hope.

The clarion call was repeated, louder and closer, and the grey great form of the Oliphaunt came crashing through the trees, splintering massive branches that broke like twigs upon his mighty frame. He charged forward, head lowered, gold-banded tusks outthrust, and ran straight at the Orcs. The ground shook beneath him and around Ash people screamed in terror. But Ash wasn't afraid; he watched as the Orcs turned and ran, but not fast enough. In a few thundering strides the Oliphaunt was upon them. He swept his tusks in a long sideways arc, back and forth, catching up Orcs like rag-dolls and sending them flying. When they hit the ground, they did not move again. Others were trampled beneath his massive feet, screams abruptly cut off. 

In a matter of minutes, it was over. If any Orcs survived by running into the woods, Ash never knew; but over thirty dead were later burned in a pit and buried in a field far from the village. No grass ever grew there again.

The Oliphaunt turned to face the villagers. He trumpeted again, but this was no war cry, but quieter. His giant ears flapped to and fro and he raised his trunk. _He's smelling the air_ , Ash realised, and then, _He's looking for me._

"Archers, ready your arrows," said the Elder. "I fear we face a foe worse than Orcs, but be of stout heart."

Ash didn't pause to think. He simply reacted. "No!" he cried. "You mustn't harm him." He dropped his bow and arrows and ran toward the Oliphaunt, ignoring his mother's panicked, "Ash, stop!" His only thought was for the Oliphaunt and protecting him from harm. Gasps of horror erupted and Ash's mother covered her eyes as if unable to bear what she thought must surely follow.

"Oh, it is good to see you again," Ash said to the Oliphaunt when he reached him. The Oliphaunt blew softly through his trunk and touched Ash's face in greeting. Then he wrapped his trunk around Ash as he had done the previous day and Ash rested his cheek on it, filled to bursting with happiness. 

A wondering silence fell as the villagers watched Ash and the Oliphaunt. The boy raised his head and called out, "Please, everyone, put down your weapons. It's safe, I promise you." Slowly, reluctantly, they did. 

"We have to prove to them that you can be trusted," Ash said. He patted him on the trunk and the Oliphaunt released him. "Come with me." He started walking and the Oliphaunt, all sign of his battle-rage faded, followed him, placid as an oversized pack horse. 

As they neared people shrank back, even his friends and his mother. Ash said, "Don't be frightened. He isn't evil. He has been cruelly used, and he is lonely and very far from his home. We can give him a home with us." He looked at his pale and shaken mother. "Don't we owe it to him? He just saved our lives."

"He's a wild beast," the Elder protested. "He has no place among civilised folk." Murmurs of agreement greeted his words. 

"He's not like other beasts. He's very smart and he listens to what I tell him," Ash argued. "Besides, he can earn his keep."

"How?" the Elder replied skeptically. "More likely he'll trample our fields and crops and destroy our houses." 

For answer Ash said, "I'll show you how." He patted the Oliphaunt's trunk again and led him away. He could hear people whispering among themselves as they followed, heard his mother say, "Oh Ash, my son, what have you done?"

"I've made a friend, Mother," he replied.

A farmer had been in the process of clearing a field north of the village when he was called away to the war. Ash led the party to the field, and there he turned to the farmer's son and said, "You told me you want to finish clearing this field as a surprise for your father when he comes home."

"That's right," the boy replied. "Only I can't remove the tree stumps, our draft horse having gone with my Dad."

"Then why not let the Oliphaunt do it?" He didn't wait for a reply but went into the field and up to the nearest tree stump. His seeming confidence was mostly for show. He didn't know if this would work. The Oliphaunt might not understand Ash at all. How had the Southrons communicated with him? Not with kindness, he judged, and therefore their methods would never do.

He looked up at the Oliphaunt, towering above him. His dark eyes were intelligent, alert and aware. He was waiting for Ash to tell him what to do. Ash's confidence grew. He touched the Oliphaunt's trunk, guided it to the stump. "Can you pull this out?" he said, and demonstrated, making a lifting motion with his arms. The Oliphaunt trumpeted softly, bobbed his head, and Ash stepped away. 

The Oliphaunt wrapped his trunk tightly around the stump and lifted. It came out of the ground as easily as if it were a turned-over potato. After he set the stump down, Ash led him to the next one and the ones after that: five in all. It took a fraction of the time and effort to remove the stumps than it would have for a draft horse or even a team. When he was done, Ash had the Oliphaunt pile the stumps at the edge of the field, communicating with him through quiet words and gentle touches.

All the while people watched with mouths agape in astonishment. The gasps now were of wonder, not fear. "I've never seen the like," the Elder said, shaking his head. "It's child's play to him."

"He can help us in other ways," Ash said eagerly. "Why, his back is higher than the roofs of the cottages. Think how easy it will be to repair the thatch."

"Maybe for you, young Ash, but I'm not about to sit on the back of any Oliphaunt."

People laughed, and then Ash's mother stood up tall and walked to her son's side. She took his hand, her own cold and trembling, for it was no easy matter to stand close beside an Oliphaunt. But her voice was firm as she said, "The Oliphaunt has proven his worth. Ash is right: he _has_ earned a home here in our village."

The Elder looked around the circle of faces. "That's two in favour, but what do the rest of you say? It's time for a vote, yea or nay." A chorus of yeas rang out. The Elder smiled, a rueful smile, "Well, young Ash, it's unanimous: your Oliphaunt can stay. All my life I thought they were only make believe, and now we'll have one living in our village. Live and learn, as they say."

Ash hugged his mother jubilantly and the Oliphaunt, as if he understood, raised his trunk and trumpeted his joy to the sky.

~*~

One day at the end of March a hush fell over the village, a waiting stillness that all felt but none could explain. People spoke in whispers and looked anxiously to the east, where the sky was dark as night. Ash sat upon the Oliphaunt's back, wondering what was happening in the great battle and if his father was still alive. And then, with shocking suddenness, a shudder ran through the earth, passing beneath the Oliphaunt's feet and causing him to toss his great head uneasily. Ash thought he heard in the far distance a sound high and thin and faint, a shriek of dismay abruptly cut off. A great wind came sweeping through the village, rattling the shutters on their hinges and causing the trees beyond to ripple and sway like ripe wheat at harvest time. In its wake the sky to the east grew light; the long shadow disappeared, and with it went the oppression of spirit they'd lived under since the darkness fell on the land. 

Ash laughed from the lightness in his heart and said to the Oliphaunt, with a sureness beyond all knowing, "Father will be home soon now. I can't wait for him to meet you."

~*~

Ash's father returned two weeks later, along with those of the village men who had survived: many, though sadly not all. They were thinner and bore scars from the wounds they had suffered. But as they drew near the village, they felt no tiredness but urged their horses on with eager hearts and eyes alight.

A bell began clanging and they knew they had been spotted. Ash's father spurred his horse into a run, only to rein him in hard as the most improbable sight he could have imagined appeared in the lane. It was an Oliphaunt. 

He'd seen Oliphaunts, or Mûmakil as those in the City called them, on the Pelennor during the battle. A part of him had felt a sense of delight, and he'd wondered what Ash would say when he told him, for he well recalled how his son had loved the poem and how often he'd asked if they could have an Oliphaunt of their own. But he had also witnessed their battle-rage and the death and destruction they could cause. He swiftly dismounted and his hand instinctively went to the sword at his belt, preparing to draw it.

Until that is, he saw the tiny figure seated on the Oliphaunt's back and realised that it was Ash. His astonishment was now so great that he couldn't even feel joy and relief to see his son again and know that he was safe. The Oliphaunt came to halt and lowered himself to his knees. Ash clambered down his shoulder and onto his leg with an ease and assurance that told his father he had done this many times in the past. 

And then Ash jumped to the ground and ran to fling himself in his father's arms. "Oh Father," he said, clinging to his neck like a limpet, "I'm so glad you're home. Mother is coming and the others. I wanted her to ride with me, but she's still a little afraid of my Oliphaunt." Ash drew back, beaming. "Didn't I always tell you I wanted an Oliphaunt? And now I have one. Isn't he grand?"

There was nothing for it: Ash's father threw back his head and laughed as he hadn't laughed since the day he left for the City with no certainty he would ever return. There was a story here, he knew, and he would hear it; but the tale would keep for later. He had time now, all the time in the world, for he was home from the war at last.

~*~

"And there's an end to the story of the boy and the Oliphaunt," said Sam Gamgee to his children, who were sitting in a circle on the hearth-rug, their upturned faces rapt as they listened. "And that means it's time for bed. Mother-Rose is waiting."

"But Sam-dad," protested Merry, "you didn't tell us everything."

"Everything is a powerful lot of things, Merry-lad. No tale can ever include _everything_."

"I want to know the Oliphaunt's name."

"You'll have to wait for Merry and Pippin to come home then, for they didn't mention it in their letter."

"I don't understand why not. It seems very important to me."

"Perhaps the King didn't know it when he told them about Ash and the Oliphaunt."

"Then he should find out. You should write him, Sam-dad," suggested Merry, "and ask him. After all, he's _your_ Oliphaunt, too."

"Then the next time I write him I'll ask, although I reckon the King has more important things to worry about than satisfying a hobbit-lad's curiosity." Sam grinned and ruffled his son's curls. "Now go on, all of you. I'll be along in a little while to tuck you in."

Reluctantly Elanor, Frodo, Rose, Merry, Pippin, Goldilocks, Hamfast and Daisy left the room, after each giving their father a hug and a kiss.

Sam sat on, smiling a little at Merry's obstinate insistence on knowing every detail of the story. He was a caution and no mistake. But the truth was, as he'd said, no one ever knew every detail of a story. In fact sometimes a father seeking to keep his children entertained might embellish such story as he had. For Sam in truth didn't know if Ash's Oliphaunt _was_ his Oliphaunt. It might be any of the great beasts the Southrons had ridden to the war. But he hoped it was, for it seemed a cruel fate for it to have drowned in the river or fallen in a pit or died in the forest far from the land of his birth. No, that would be sad indeed. Better to believe that he'd found a home with the boy Ash and lived happily ever after. 

And perhaps, just perhaps, one day Sam would travel to that small village and find out for himself. 

~end~

_Grey as a mouse,_  
_Big as a house,_  
_Nose like a snake,_  
_I make the earth shake,_  
_As I tramp through the grass;_  
_Trees crack as I pass._  
_With horns in my mouth_  
_I walk in the South,_  
_Flapping big ears._  
_Beyond count of years_  
_I stump round and round,_  
_Never lie on the ground,_  
_Not even to die._  
_Oliphaunt am I,_  
_Biggest of all,_  
_Huge, old, and tall._  
_If ever you'd met me_  
_You wouldn't forget me._  
_If you never do,_  
_You won't think I'm true;_  
_But old Oliphaunt am I,_  
_And I never lie._


End file.
